Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Action Poetry

i will not chase your answers
any further than my hands
can grasp.

i've been on my toes
too long,
in limbo, caught between
my front and back,
head a slur of motion.

i'm sick of looking over my shoulder.

my net is a closed fist,
it is empty,
and i master the obvious,
trace the ridges of your doorframe.